The Wild Man of the West (A Western Classic). R.M. Ballantyne

I, lad,” cried March gaily, as he flung himself upon the grassy mound; “I’m goin’ to admire this splendid country till I’m tired of it, and leave you and the other fellows to do the work.”

      “Oh! ver’ goot,” cried Gibault, sitting down beside our hero, and proceeding to fill his pipe, “I will ’mire de countray, too. Ha! it be unmarkibly beautiful—specially when beholded troo one cloud of tabacca smoke.”

      “Alas! Gibault, we’ll have to move off sooner than we expected, for there it comes.”

      The two friends leaped up simultaneously, and, seizing their packs, hurried down the mound, entered the thick bushes, and vanished.

      The object whose sudden appearance had occasioned this abrupt departure would, in truth, have been somewhat singular, not to say alarming, in aspect, to those who did not know its nature. At a distance it looked like one of those horrible antediluvian monsters one reads of, with a lank body, about thirty feet long. It was reddish-yellow in colour, and came on at a slow, crawling pace, its back appearing occasionally above the underwood. Presently its outline became more defined, and it turned out to be a canoe instead of an antediluvian monster, with Big Waller and Bounce acting the part of legs to it. Old Redhand the trapper and Hawkswing the Indian walked alongside, ready to relieve their comrades when they should grow tired—for a large canoe is a heavy load for two men—or to assist them in unusually bad places, or to support them and prevent accidents, should they chance to stumble.

      “Have a care now, lad, at the last step,” said Redhand, who walked a little in advance.

      “Yer help would be better than yer advice, old feller,” replied Bounce, as he stepped upon the ridge or mound which Marston and his companion had just quitted. “Lend a hand; we’ll take a spell here. I do believe my shoulder’s out o’ joint. There, gently—that’s it.”

      “Wall, I guess this is Eden,” cried Big Waller, gazing around him with unfeigned delight. “Leastwise, if it ain’t, it must be the very nixt location to them there diggins of old Father Adam. Ain’t it splendiferous?”

      Big Waller was an out-and-out Yankee trapper. It is a mistake to suppose that all Yankees “guess” and “calculate,” and talk through their nose. There are many who don’t, as well as many who do; but certain it is that Big Waller possessed all of these peculiarities in an alarming degree. Moreover, he was characteristically thin and tall and sallow. Nevertheless, he was a hearty, good-natured fellow, not given to boasting so much as most of his class, but much more given to the performance of daring deeds. In addition to his other qualities, the stout Yankee had a loud, thundering, melodious voice, which he was fond of using, and tremendous activity of body, which he was fond of exhibiting.

      He was quite a contrast, in all respects, to his Indian companion, Hawkswing, who, although about as tall, was not nearly so massive or powerful. Like most North American Indians, he was grave and taciturn in disposition; in other respects there was nothing striking about him. He was clad, like his comrades, in a trapper’s hunting-shirt and leggings; but he scorned to use a cap of any kind, conceiving that his thick, straight, black hair was a sufficient covering, as undoubtedly it was. He was as courageous as most men; a fair average shot, and, when occasion required, as lithe and agile as a panther; but he was not a hero—few savages are. He possessed one good quality, however, beyond his kinsmen—he preferred mercy to revenge, and did not gloat over the idea of tearing the scalps off his enemies, and fringing his coat and leggings therewith.

      “’Tis a sweet spot,” said Redhand to his comrades, who stood or reclined in various attitudes around him. “Such a place as I’ve often thought of casting anchor in for life.”

      “An’ why don’t ye, then?” inquired Waller. “If I was thinkin’ o’ locating down anywhar’, I guess I’d jine ye, old man. But I’m too fond o’ rovin’ for that yet. I calc’late it’ll be some years afore I come to that pint. Why don’t ye build a log hut, and enjoy yerself?”

      “’Cause I’ve not just come to that point either,” replied the old man with a smile.

      Redhand had passed his best days many years before. His form was spare, and his silvery locks were thin; but his figure was still tall and straight as a poplar, and the fire of youth still lingered in his dark-blue eye. The most striking and attractive point about Redhand was the extreme kindliness that beamed in his countenance. A long life in the wilderness had wrinkled it; but every wrinkle tended, somehow, to bring out the great characteristic of the man. Even his frown had something kindly in it. The prevailing aspect was that of calm serenity. Redhand spoke little, but he was an attentive listener, and, although he never laughed loudly, he laughed often and heartily, in his own way, at the sallies of his younger comrades. In youth he must have been a strikingly handsome man. Even in old age he was a strong one.

      “I’ll tell ye what’s my opinion now, boys, in regard to settlin’ down,” said Bounce, who, having filled and lighted his pipe, now found himself in a position to state his views comfortably. “Ye see, settlin’ down may, in a gin’ral way, be said to be nonsense. In pint o’ fact, there ain’t no sich a thing as settlin’ down. When a feller sits down, why, in a short bit, he’s bound to rise up agin, and when he goes to bed, he means for to get up next mornin’.” (Here Bounce paused, drew several whiffs, and rammed down the tobacco in his pipe with the end of his little finger.) “Then, when a feller locates in a place, he’s sure for to be movin’ about, more or less, as long as he’s got a leg to stand on. Now, what I say is, that when a man comes to talk o’ settlin’ down, he’s losin’ heart for a wanderin’ life among all the beautiful things o’ creation; an’ when a man loses heart for the beautiful things o’ creation, he’ll soon settle down for good and all. He’s in a bad way, he is, and oughtn’t to encourage hisself in sich feelin’s. I b’lieve that to be the feelosophy o’ the whole affair, and I don’t b’lieve that nobody o’ common edication—I don’t mean school edication, but backwoods edication—would go for to think otherwise. Wot say you, Waller?”

      “Sartinly not,” replied the individual thus appealed to.

      Big Waller had a deep reverence for the supposed wisdom of his friend Bounce. He listened to his lucubrations with earnest attention at all times, and, when he understood them, usually assented to all his friend said. When Bounce became too profound for him, as was not infrequently the case, he contented himself with nodding his head, as though to say, “I’m with you in heart, lad, though not quite clear in my mind; but it’s all right, I’m quite sartin.”

      “Well, then,” resumed Bounce, turning to Redhand, “what do you think o’ them sentiments, old man?”

      Redhand, who had been paying no attention whatever to these sentiments, but, during the delivery of them, had been gazing wistfully out upon the wide expanse of country before him, laid his hand on Bounce’s shoulder, and said in a low, earnest tone—

      “It’s a grand country! D’ye see the little clear spot yonder, on the river bank, with the aspen grove behind it, an’ the run of prairie on the right, an’ the little lake not a gun-shot off on the left? That’s the spot I’ve sometimes thought of locatin’ on when my gun begins to feel too heavy. There’ll be cities there some day. Bricks and mortar and stone ’ll change its face—an’ cornfields, an’— but not in our day, lad, not in our day. The redskins and the bears ’ll hold it as long as we’re above ground. Yes, I’d like to settle down there.”

      “Come, come, Redhand,” said Bounce, “this sort o’ thing ’ll never do. Why, you’re as hale and hearty as the best on us. Wot on ’arth makes you talk of settlin’ down in that there fashion?”

      “Ha!” exclaimed Waller energetically, “I guess if ye goes on in that style ye’ll turn into a riglar hiplecondrik—ain’t that the word, Bounce? I heer’d the minister say as it was the wust kind o’ the blues. What’s your opinion o’ settlin’ down, Hawkswing?”

      To this question the Indian gravely replied in his own language (with which the trappers were well acquainted), that, not